Baker Street Irregulars
by A Girl With An Idea
Summary: John hoped he would finally die in order to reunite with Sherlock after three agonising, alcoholic years. So when the opportunity came when returning home from the pub, John would welcome death with open arms, until a dark figure blocked his view of the night sky, which left John thinking it was death finally taking him, but was that really the case? Eventual Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**A couple of things to say before we start:**

**1)This is eventual Johnlock, I have to develop the story before we introduce Sherlock again.**

**2)I don't own Sherlock**

**3)This is my interpretation of the Baker Street Irregulars**

**I think that's everything, so I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

London streets had become incredibly dull to John. They never look the same; they used to be filled with excitement and unexpected surprises around every corner; that was why he found London so incredible. Jumping from rooftops. Climbing up ladders. Chasing criminals into the darkness. All of this made John feel more sane. But all of this was when Sherlock was still...

No. He didn't want to think about it. Not now, perhaps later when he's in the comfort of Baker Street, crawled up into a ball on his favourite chair by the fireplace. There was nothing to look at anymore, the empty space where Sherlock's chair once stood was becoming increasingly painful to look at, with or without the chair. The day that John gave up the chair to charity was a day he had regretted most. The room felt extremely stupid without it.

But even now John couldn't return back to the flat, well not yet anyway. Sometimes, when he's alone in the flat -or even alone in the whole building if Mrs Hudson is out- he gets this strong urge to lock himself in his room; his room is the only place which doesn't remind him of Sherlock. Harry insisted that he should leave Baker Street and live with her for the time being; this was three years ago.

John was always kicking himself for not calling Harry, or Lestrade, or anyone else for that matter. The thought of keeping in touch with the people who didn't believe in him was painful. To this day, John felt like he was the only one who truly believed in Sherlock and the incredible things he could do.

Truly incredible. Sherlock's deductions is one of the reasons why John fell in love with-

Great. It was all coming back to him, even when he tried to forget. But he understands now: he left it too late. You should never keep something so life changing a secret.

John was in love with Sherlock Holmes. His mind. His personality. His everything.

But he always loved Sherlock, even if John didn't know it himself. There were moments in their life when they had a true connection. That was what John held onto the most. The great moments they shared.

If Sherlock were alive now, he would probably look at John in disgust. With true disgust. It was a Friday night, and the only way John could feel sane was to drink his sorrows, stumble home drunk and collapse into his bed. But he wouldn't sleep until hours later. It still felt like Sherlock was still in the flat. As he thought of all this, he was walking towards the nearest pub where he could be ignored and left alone.

No. He had to change. Today is the anniversary of Sherlock's death. Three years he had been doing this and he wasn't going to continue for three more. Contact. He needed to call somebody. Anybody. Quickly, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to search through his contacts.

Mike. It had been more than three years since he's seen him. They were great friends back at St Barts. But right now wasn't the time to talk to him. He needed to talk to somebody who was also close to Sherlock. He quickly called the person he thought he could talk to the most.

"Hello?" said the voice over the phone. It had been three years since he had heard his voice.

"Greg, it's John." he slowed down and came to a halt at the edge of a building, away from the moving crowds.

"John? Is that really you?" he couldn't help but smile at how shocked Greg sounded, "Um, how've you been?"

"So-so." was all he could say, "Listen Greg- what are you doing now?"

"Right now? Well, nothing really. Sat with the Mrs, why are you asking?"

"Well, you know what day it is today right?"

There was a pause over the phone before Greg replied, "Yeah, I- I know what today is. Why? What's wrong?"

"Well, it's a Friday night. I was wondering if you wanted to go to the pub? It's been three years. I know it's sudden."

Again there was a silence over the phone, but sounds of-what appeared to be- Lestrade's wife talking in the background. After a few seconds, Greg replied, "Sure John, that sounds great. Um, where do you want to meet?"

"Remember the pub on Greenway Street? Where we went after the case with the stolen painting?" he asked, with Greg humming a yes to every question, "How about there?"

"Yeah, that's perfectly fine," he could hear the sound of keys rattling over the phone, as if he was about to leave the house, "Did you say Greenway Street? Are you there now?"

"I'm on my way now," he started to walk again, merging into the crowd.

"Right, I'll see you there." said Greg, then ending the call. Three year he's kept himself in the dark. Kept himself away from people who cared. Tonight was a new change. A change for the better.

* * *

The Abbey Arms was a quiet pub which stood on the corner of a fairly empty street; not far from the flat. The case was about a painting that was stolen from a rich businessman and was claimed to cost hundreds and thousands of pounds. It turned out that the businessman hired someone to steal the painting in order to get back at his cheating wife. Since Sherlock was irritated by how easy the case was, Greg randomly decided to take John, Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan to The Abbey Arms to cheer themselves up. Of course it didn't change the fact that the case was time wasting for Sherlock.

When John entered the bar and saw Greg sat in one of the booths, he didn't have to check twice to make sure it was him. There wasn't any difference in his appearance, however the only change was that he had far shorter hair which had turned a lighter grey. Compared to himself, Greg looked better. John didn't need a mirror to tell what he looked like; he could feel it. The bags under his eyes; his shoulders slouched; and his facial hair had grown out. He didn't realise-however- how shocked Greg would be.

"Christ John, is that you?" he asked getting up from his seat, "Wait here a minute and I'll get you a drink. A pint?" he asked, which John nodded to as he took a seat in the booth. Finally John was able to sit down and rest his leg, as he felt it tense up as he was walking. He looked down at his hand still clenching at his cane; when he tried to loosen his grip, his leg tensed up more. Greg came back to the table, holding two pints and placed one beside John and the other on his side, "How long's it been since we last saw each other?"

"Three years. Doesn't feel like it." he said, taking a sip of his drink, which had a bitter aftertaste to it.

"Yeah it doesn't. Work's been hectic."

"How has work been without Sherlock then?" he asked, taking a far larger gulp than the first one; he had already drank a third of his drink.

"Oh you know, it's not been the same and all. Anderson's still a pain in the ass. Donovan's been better. Do you know they've moved in with each other now? After Anderson's wife left him."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, I remember the night he knocked on my door and said that his wife kicked him out without packing. He lived with me for a week before Donovan offered to take him off of my shoulders. Cases have been hard to solve, with Sherlock-" again, John took another shot of his drink, "-gone we've tried to hire a couple more people who were inspired by Sherlock, but it still doesn't help."

"Well, sorry about that Greg. I can imagine what Sherlock would be saying though if he was watching you now."

"He'd probably go on about how all the people I hired were idiots and deduce the whole crime scene. After that, he would finish by insulting Anderson again."

"He'd say again 'Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street.'" said John, and giggled nervously to himself as Greg copied. Both grabbed their glasses in sync and took another drink; John barely had any left. They sat across from one another and stared at the rest of the room; obviously both trying to think of something to say. Inside was still empty; besides John and Greg, there were only six other people sat at far ends of the room, either in pairs or just on their own at the bar.

"So- uh John, how've you been lately?" asked Greg.

"Oh, I've been-" he stopped, picking up his glass out of habit, "-fine. I've coped, I guess. Started my own private practice in the flat."

"Oh? And how's that been? Getting any business?"

"It's been alright. I mean business is slow but many people can't afford private services and some people can."

"Well, at least you've got a decent job then, eh?" Greg asked. His eyes wondered over to the cane John was holding and he tensed in his seat, "I- uh, see that you're using a cane again?" he asked, but soon wished he didn't bring it up. John took one look at Greg before taking a full swig of his drink without stopping and getting out of his seat.

"I'm getting another one, you want one?" he asked plainly. Greg was too worried to answer, so John just left him and went to get his own. Further into the night it had gotten far worse.

* * *

This was why he never choose to drink, but somehow he always ends up taking one little sip and starts to lose control of himself. He can't help it. John was just about to start his fourth pint while Greg was still on his second, who was staring-shocked- at John. They had been there for two hours and were now the only ones left in the pub.

"Hey John, maybe you should take it easy." said Greg, reaching a hand to try and grab John's drink off him, but John was fast enough to pull away.

"You know what bloody day it is today Greg?" he said, his words slurring with each word, "Today is the day Sherlock bloody Holmes jumped off that bloody building and landed flat on the bloody ground and I stood there and did fuck all."

"John, listen to what you're saying. You didn't know it would happen."

"Don't care, I mean I could have called you and asked you to help me. I could have been less of a bastard to Sherlock before he died. You know, he told me that he was a fake before he died and do you think I believe him? Of course I bloody don't. I'm not fucking stupid you know."

"John, look at yourself. Do you think he'd be happy seeing you like this?"

"Don't you dare use that against me. Actually, you know what, it's all your fault he's dead. Yeah, that's right. You. You killed him, not the fall. Donovan helped. You both helped him reach his death, and somehow you can move on with your lives?"

"What the fuck John?!" he asked, trying harder to pull John's glass away from him, "I did fuck all, it was Moriarty who-"

"Yeah, that's the thing. You did 'fuck all', didn't you? You thought he was fake when he wasn't. You thought he kidnapped those kids, but he didn't."

"I know that John. Christ don't you think I know that?" said Greg, who put down his glass and looked at his watch, "You need to get a grip John. Anyway it's getting late; I have to get back to the wife."

"Yeah, fine. Just go. Leave me here you bastard. I'll be fine. I mean I've been fine for three years haven't I? I've coped! I don't need you, I don't need anyone! I'll be on my own. Alone protects me."

"No John. No it doesn't." said Greg. He stood up and put on his coat; and chucked a couple of notes on the table, "Go home John. Get some water down you and go to bed. When you wake up tomorrow, try and remember what happened just now. Stop drinking. You know I've met your sister. Don't end up like her." he finished, storming out of the pub and making sure to slam the door behind him. So there he was: sat on his own in an empty pub, having lost his only chance of fixing himself. What he said was hard to take back and the thought of that made him sick.

"Excuse me mate, we're closing up early tonight." said the barman, who stood at the table to clear all the glasses. John was about to protest before he felt a pair of hands pick him up and push him out the door, "No, don't complain. I've got an early morning tomorrow and this place needs clearing up. You've had too much to drink. Just go home."

As the door opened to the late night street, the cold air brushed against his face like sharp cuts. The door closed behind him and John was left standing outside the pub on an empty street. Somehow, John found it difficult to decide which direction home was, so just followed where the wind was taking him. Gravity was acting against him, as he tumbled and tripped on his every step trying to focus on the difference between the road and the pavement.

It was ten minutes into walking when John felt something painful in the pit of his stomach. The pain was excruciating and unbearable; so unbearable that John had to turn into an alley to crouch down against a wall, clutching at his stomach while trying to control his breathing. It was a sudden realisation when John took notice of what state he was in. John was completely drunk in a dark alley, with nobody to help him; nobody to care. If only Sherlock was still alive.

This is what pained him the most. He wasn't alive. He was dead. Very much dead. The person that he chose to fall deeply in love with couldn't love him back; there was nobody for him. The years before the fall were the best of his life. Sherlock continued to amaze him and impress him with his intellect. Their cases were exciting and there was never a dull moment. Those were the days he missed the most.

All of this thinking caused John to lost control of himself and started to cry right there; on his own; with nobody to tell him that everything will be okay. This was the most he had cried in the three years, even the first days after his death was less worse than this. Not only did his leg ache or his shoulder, his heart ached to. It hurt him so much to think about anything these days. Whenever he would think about Sherlock, he couldn't cope, and it was hard to keep himself steady.

It was because of this that John didn't notice a figure stand next to him. It was because of this that he didn't react when the figure grabbed him painfully by the shoulder so they were standing face to face. It was hard for John to look at the other person in such a dark backstreet, but he could sense that it was somebody who wasn't looking to help him. John looked down and saw that the figure possessed a large, sharp knife in his hand, which was pointed directly into his stomach. The tip of the blade was so close that if he tried to breathe out, he could feel the tip poke into him.

This was it. This was the moment-John thought- that he could finally reunite with Sherlock. He didn't have to be alone anymore. Facing the world everyday wasn't going to be an option anymore. This could finally release him from his pain.

"What are you waiting for?" John gasped, finally letting go on his cane and curling his hands into fists, "Do it." The person stood there, hesitating because-John guessed- they were too shocked by John's reaction. From this, John grew impatient and shouted louder, "What are you waiting for!?"

This made the person react. However, instead of stabbing John in the stomach-which was where he hoped it was- the person stabbed him in his already injured shoulder. All the pain he had suffered felt worse as the blade punctured further and further into his shoulder, causing him to scream in agonising pain. Because he screamed, the stranger took out the knife and dropped it before running down the alley and around the corner, out of sight.

The feeling in his leg was gone, as he finally fell to the ground and landed in a cold puddle on the pavement, just next to the knife. Just as he was about to chuck the knife away, it started to rain heavily onto the streets and drenched his whole body. The blood from his wound was soaking through his clothes and from underneath him onto the street. His breathing grew quicker and deeper; his eyeballs falling to the back of his head as he tried not to close his eyes.

Just as John was about to finally close his eyes, he saw a dark figure stand before him; blocking his view of the night sky. Sherlock always found the night sky interesting; and he hoped his final view would be of what Sherlock had interest in. Maybe this was death meeting him in his final moment; ready to take him. When he took one last look at the figure, he closed his eyes. At that moment, he was ready to accept death with open arms.


	2. Chapter 2

_Don't touch him._

_Leave him alone._

_Is he alive?_

_Yes I'm afraid so._

Voices.

_Shut up Tom, you're a bloody idiot._

_Wiggi! Tom said a bad word._

_Now look what you've done Tom._

Who-or what-were these voices? Was he imagining this? All of this?

_Guys, can we all just give him space for a minute. Let me make sure he's alright then do what you want._

A sharp pain in his shoulder caused him to black out again.

* * *

_Isn't that John Watson? You know that guy who worked with that guy who hired us?_

_Hey, weren't them two together?_

_I bet they were, maybe we should ask him. _

_Why didn't you just leave him in the alley? We can't look after him!_

_Of course we can. I just couldn't leave him. _

_He needs help._

In a split second, John's eyes finally opened in a swift movement, causing people around him to jump back. It was all too much for John, he should be dead. Not unless this was the afterlife, but the way the afterlife is described is far more enchanting than where he is now. He started to panic. Breathing became a too difficult task for him; even though he might be alive, he was very much petrified for what has happened to him.

"Wiggins! He's awake. What do we do?" said someone to the left of him; someone who sounded very much like a child.

"Should we knock him out again just for the hell of it?" said another person, who was stood just above him aiming a baseball bat at his head, causing John to squirm from his lying position. The figure was just about to raise the bat when he saw another hand grab it away.

"Tom, stop acting like such a dick. He doesn't need you threatening to kill him off again."

"I wasn't going to kill him you idiot. You're just being over dramatic like you usually are and you know why? It's because you're a woman."

John heard a quick shift of feet, followed by trails of people screaming at each other, "Say that again! I fucking dare you! Wiggins just let me kill this motherfucker and get it done with."

"Wiggi! Now they're both saying a bad word!" said a small voice-of a girl- that was from a person grabbing his hand tightly. What frightened John was how terribly young the girl sounded.

"Tom! Ines! Stop acting like a bunch of kids and go find me some more bandages." said the voice of somebody who sounded far older than the rest. John guessed that this was 'Wiggi'. The figure crouched down next to him and applied a cold cloth onto his forehead, but not cold enough to help him, "Can you hear me?"

A bright light was now gleaming in his view, causing John to wince, "Pupils are constricting. No irregular eye movement. No sign of concussion. I think it's just his shoulder that's the problem, but all he needs to do is get to a hospital. I've already contacted Mycroft through CCTV so they should be here soon. Now John, if you can hear me, I need you to keep still, alright? You're an army doctor so you should know to keep pressure on the wound and avoid moving too much."

"Who-" John tried to talk, but his words were getting more harder to understand, "Who are-"

"He doesn't need to know who we are. Myc told us to keep quiet. Make sure no one knows us and carry on with our lives. However after Tom and Ines's fine performance, he already knows most of our names now anyway."

"Daniel, can you please just do something and apply pressure on the wound? I need to get more supplies from Martha." said Wiggins. The pressure on his arm was gone for a brief moment until it was replaced with another hand. He could sense that there might be two people sat around him.

"Danny, is he going to be okay? I hope he's going to be okay. Johnny!" called the girl, over to his other side, "Do you think he will be okay?" There was no answer. Maybe-John thought- the girl made a mistake and was instead talking to him.

"Kathy, don't talk to Johnson, okay?" said Daniel. From this, John assumes 'Johnny' was short for Johnson, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Remember those things Sherlock told us about John?"

Sherlock. They knew Sherlock. But how?

"Yeah, I do. Sherly told us that he was like a knight who was really brave and liked jumpers. I like jumpers, so we have something in common."

"What's-" said John, who saw the pair turn their eyes towards him, "-happened...to me?"

"Um, well we're not sure. Wiggins came back and said that he found you in an alley and asked me and Johnson to help pick you up. Luckily there weren't much people in the streets so we got you here easily enough. You do remember what happened don't you? You were stabbed in the shoulder, remember?" said Daniel, taking the cloth on his head and switching the sides, so it was cold again.

"Where...am I?" asked John, trying to turn his head from side to side.

"Well, right now we're under a bridge near Baker Street. Sorry we couldn't get anywhere more glamorous enough to satisfy you." said Daniel. As John's eyes refocused, it was confirmed that he was under a bridge, lying on a small pathway close to a running river. It was still dark outside, but there was a flickering light coming from near his feet; it was letting out a pleasing warmth from it. He was also able to see the three people there more clearly. The one closest to him was a boy, no older than 17 years old. In a way, they both looked the same, as they both had sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. However, his hair was covered with a grey cap and his body was covered in layers of coats.

Next to him- the one who was holding his hand- was a young child who must have been younger than 10 years old. Just like Daniel, she also wore layers of dark grey clothing and had her long, brown hair scrunched to the back of her head, but was loose enough for strands to fall.

The one who had been keeping quiet- Johnson- looked the same age as Daniel, but his eyes were much more older with dark ovals forming below them. His clothes were covered in- what John guessed- blood from carrying him to where they were now. All three of them looked young enough to still be in school, but looking at them now, John assumed they didn't go to school, or even have a home.

"Are you, homeless?" John asked, wondering if he would offend them, "Or- go to school?"

"Yes to the first. No to the second." said Daniel, raising his hands to stress where they were now.

"How do you- you know, live?" asked John.

"Well, we get by easily. People pay us so that's good enough. Especially if we do work for them. We used to work for-"

"Shut up Daniel." said Johnson, who was glaring at the three of them.

"Well, he must know. He's seen the others before. And we can't keep a secret from someone who knew Sherlock well." said Daniel, turning to face John again, "Our 'organisation' is called Baker Street Irregulars and it consists of two groups: us and another group who are much older than us who travel much more."

"We help Sherly with stuff. I like it when he asks us to help, I feel like a detective, LIKE HIM!" said Kathy, who was bouncing excitedly in her place.

"You knew Sherlock?" asked John curiously.

"Of course we knew him. He hired us and he paid us when Kathy told him about us being homeless. But now that he, well you know, what happened three years ago. We've had to earn ourselves more money than usual. But we've coped well enough." said Daniel, who stood up and started to head away from him, "I need to help Wiggins get supplies since we're losing stock. Johnson's here to look after you."

Once he was gone, Kathy shuffled closer towards John, but never let go of his hand, "I'm sorry sir, about Sherly going away," she said. John grimaced at the thought of it all again. The fall. The blood. The years. Again, he started to breath heavily and was nearly at the point of tears, but because of Kathy's gesture of holding his hand; he calmed down and told himself not to cry in front of her, "I liked him, and his coat. I asked if I could wear his coat. He said it was too big for me."

"You know it probably was." said John. Since he didn't feel much pain, he raised his other hand and placed it over hers, "How old are you?"

"I'm nine years old sir. But it's my birthday soon so I'm going to be ten, and ten is-" she paused, and John could see her counting the numbers in her head, "-a double number, so it's really important."

"I bet it is." he said. Still, Johnson did nothing. All he'd done besides say three words was look at the river; and only the river, "But don't you have a family? A mum? A dad?"

"Well, I don't remember sir. I was too young to remember, it was long ago though, because I remember having four birthdays." she said with pride.

"Wait, so you've been like this since you were five?" He asked in a shocking manner that the girl ended up giggling at him.

"Yes, well maybe. But I was five before Sherly went away. Maybe that's why he wouldn't let me wear the coat, because he needed it-" she was cut short by the large sounds of steps growing faster towards them, followed by the sounds of sirens. Johnson quickly stood up and gathered all his things in a bag; Kathy did the same.

"He called a bloody ambulance!" called Ines, who ran under the bridge to kick the fire into the water, "Myc called an ambulance. I thought he was going to bring one of those black cars?"

"That's what I thought!" called Tom, who ran to Ines's side and picked up the other bags, "Wiggins! Hurry up, we need to get out of here!"

All five of them began running out from under the bridge; he could hear Kathy calling John to say goodbye, but it sounded too far away. However-when he felt he was on his own- he sensed someone crouch down near him to replace the cloth on his head.

"John, if you can hear me then listen," said Wiggins, who was out of breath from running, "That ambulance is for you. Mycroft called them and told them you were here. We need to leave. They can't see us or else we'll get sent to a foster home. None of us want that. You'll be fine. I've treated the wound well enough for it to be easily healed by medical help." Wiggins stood back up and started to run away from the confused John, but stopped and turned to say, "It was a pleasure speaking with you, Doctor Watson."

And with that, he was gone. So John was on his own, but for some reason he couldn't feel the pain in his shoulder, or even his leg, even if he was stabbed there moments ago. He couldn't even feel the pain he had suffered in the years. It all seemed to melt away, but he wasn't sure why. The ambulance grew nearer and nearer until he heard the vehicle stop just on top of the bridge and the sound of the paramedics travelling down towards him.

Even when they tried to talk to him, he couldn't reply. Whether it was under the bridge or in the ambulance. Maybe he was still getting over the fact that he accused his friend for Sherlock's death, begged to be killed, got stabbed in his shoulder and met the youngest homeless people he had ever met.

John had the feeling that he would meet the Baker Street Irregulars again.

* * *

**Hello, just would like to say- now that I've revealed them- that I don't own Sherlock, except for Kathy, Ines, Daniel, Tom and Johnson :)**

**Constructive criticism is very much appreciated :)**

**Update will be in a week :)**

**SJ **


	3. Chapter 3

The power of medicine was incredible, as John hardly felt pain at all when he woke up again in the hospital bed. All John could remember-after being rolled into the ambulance- was people trying to talk to him and ask him what happened; obviously John didn't reply to anyone, as all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

So when John woke up- as the sun's light entered through the blinds- all John was able to do was think. The drugs given to him was still in his system after the operation, so he couldn't feel anything in his shoulder or his limping leg. The thought of hopping to close the blinds more fully was considered, but then as he tried to move, as sharp pain stabbed in the back of his head, so dropped his head and told himself not to do it again.

Soon nurses and doctors would come in to-more likely- make this pain worse, which John wasn't prepared for, so he wondered how long he would be in the room. Around him was none of his belongings, so his clothes must be in the drawers next to him. On the table was a phone used to call the reception area; a jug of water (accompanied with a glass); and a leaflet with the title: 'Top 10 reasons as to why you shouldn't drink'. Straight away, when he is able to move, the leaflet is going in the bin.

After two hours of waiting, a nurse came in to open the blinds and window, and after- when he saw John was awake- he ran back out the room again, leaving the door open. The sounds of people shouting; the smell of hospital food; and the wind from outside filled the room instantly, which made John feel as if he was going to throw up.

"Ah, Dr John Watson." said the doctor- a man with broad shoulders and a slouched back which made him look like death if he was to wear black- who had black hair; following behind him was the same doctor who ran out the room moments ago, "I see you're awake then. I'm Doctor Carlton. How are you feeling?"

"Well, I'm not enjoying myself, if that's what you want to know." he said. Slowly- trying not to make the pain worse- he lifted himself so that his neck was up straight, "So when can I leave?"

The doctor just laughed as he walked over to him and patted John on the shoulder; unfortunately he chose the wrong shoulder, making John wince at the pain, "Ohm, not for a day or two. We have to make sure that you recover fully before we release you. Use this time to catch up with rest, even read that leaflet provided by us. You were in a drunken state when we fixed your wound, which should heal nicely with time. All I want to do now doctor is ask a few questions before we let your visitors in."

John just nodded, not believing that there were people visiting him. Doctor Carlton continued, "Do you feel any pain besides your shoulder?"

"Only in my head, but that's just from the drinking." said John, "Oh, and my leg, but I already know about that."

"Okay." he said, writing it down on a clipboard, "Next, do you take any medication or pills?"

"Just painkillers." said John bluntly.

"Right." he said, then telling the nurse to collect John's visitors from reception, "And the final question. Do you feel have the impulse to vomit? As this is a sign of nausea."

"Only when I woke up." said John.

"Well we can give you medicine for that, but for now that's all I need to ask. The nurse is bringing in your visitors now. I have to warn you there are two of them, just in case you might want to prepare yourself."

"Nope. I'm good." said John. The doctor finally left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving him in the silence again which was becoming better than hearing anything else. Only John enjoyed this silence for a few minutes until the door opened again, entering the nurse followed by two people behind him. Greg and Mycroft.

"Doctor Carlton says you have to take it easy on him, as he's only just woken up. Use the telephone if you need anything else Mr Holmes." said the nurse, who turned around and exited the room again, closing the door behind him.

John didn't really want to see either of them; he was hoping one of the visitors was Mrs Hudson, or a member of his family. Anyone besides these two, "Greg. Mycroft." he said, nodding at the pair.

"Jesus John," said Greg, who pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. On the outside Greg looked as worried when they were talking in the pub; Mycroft just looked like Mycroft: emotionless and still, "Mycroft told me what happened. I just couldn't believe it. I feel as if it's my fault, you know. I left you. I should have walked you home or called you a cab."

"Well, never mind." said John, "But hey, shit happens."

"John, I can assure you that humour isn't necessary at this moment-" said Mycroft, but John quickly cut him off.

"Well, I'll use humour as much as I want to. It's more fun." he said, then asking Mycroft, "So you called the ambulance then?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I was informed by the hospital that you were currently in surgery for your wound and so I thought it was best to call DI Lestrade." said Mycroft, who walked over to the window to stare down into the streets.

"Don't play bullshit with me Mycroft. They told me what you did. Don't pretend they don't exist!" said John. He still hadn't forgotten about those kids who found him.

Mycroft looked over at John and sighed at him in- John guessed-pity, before turning his head towards Greg, "DI Lestrade. If you would kindly wait outside the room while John and I talk for a moment?"

Greg gave each of them a curious look-obviously he wanted to stay longer to get a chance to talk to John- before getting up off his chair and walking towards the door while looking back a couple of times. When Greg finally left the room and closed the door behind him, Mycroft looked back at John and was- this time- looking at him with impatience.

"They are paid to not be seen; only Sherlock and I were able to see them. They're paid to give us information without being seen or caught by anyone. This morning you shouldn't have seen them, and you won't see them again." he said. John looked over and saw Mycroft gripped the top of his umbrella so much that his knuckles turned to white.

"Yeah, they told me all of this. But they also told me they're homeless, so why would you pay _children_ to stay homeless?! Why don't you just get them a place to stay, since they have none?" Now John was getting fully irritated with Mycroft's excuse of not giving them a home.

"They told Sherlock on the first day he hired them, that they _don't _want to go to a home as they want to stay with each other. If you ask me it's all rather a waste of time-"

"A waste of time?!" John was about to jump out of his bed to show properly how he felt, but his shoulders started to tense again, so decided against the idea, "There's a nine year old in that group, Mycroft! Didn't you know that?!"

"Of course I knew that! That is why I urged them to accept accommodation that I offered, but they refused."

"But surely they don't want to stay out there all the time? And then you hear on the news about kidnapping. And that isn't the worst of it, isn't it? You've seen the news recently, how do you know they'll be safe?" said John. It was true: John did worry for them immensely, even if he only knew they existed for less than a day. Looking back at the window, Mycroft rested his body on the wall next to it and heaved a sigh towards John.

"Believe me John, I'm trying to persuade them to get safe lodgings for the time being, but they have told me themselves they would prefer to live out there rather than somewhere secure." A buzz came from Mycroft's phone. John was expecting him to look at the phone, but instead he straightened his whole body; brushed down his suit; and started to head towards the door, "It seems as though I am late for an important meeting. It doesn't matter who with, before you ask. DI Lestrade will be with you for a couple of minutes before the nurse orders him to leave." he opened the door to let Greg in as Mycroft was walking out. Through the room entrance, Mycroft called in the hallway, "Don't worry John! I'll be seeing you very shortly!"

Now that was the last thing John needed for the start of the day: an appearance by Mycroft followed by a guaranteed appearance from Mycroft. When they first met, it's not like he didn't like the man, but at the start of those three years, he's grown to like him less and less until he reached the point that he didn't want to look at him anymore. Today, he had to talk to him.

All those teenagers- and a child- were at a great risk considering what has happened to homeless teenagers like themselves. Again, John wasn't sure why he cared so much. Maybe because they reminded him of all the teenagers and children that had lost their parents in a case that Scotland Yard had to solve. When Sherlock would take these cases, John worried constantly for them. John wondered if Sherlock would care now just as much as he does.

* * *

**Author's Note: So I decided to upload this early for fun. I also realised I can upload whenever I want because it's the summer holidays :) There will still be an update on Sunday. If you would like this story to go in a certain direction then just comment and I'll consider it :)**


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he arrived home from the hospital two days later, Mrs Hudson was practically pushing John into the flat. During those days, he just about begged the nurses to let him go a day early; he even tried to leave through the window and go down the fire escape, but by the time he had one leg outside, somebody had injected him. When he woke up he was back in bed.

Greg offered to drive him back to the flat, but he turned down the offer and thanked him for his concern, but he wasn't really interested. When Greg entered the room after Mycroft, he started talking about how he was sorry and how they need to sort out everything that has happened between them; John tried to listen and agree about moving on, but he just couldn't.

Greg even talked about trying to forget everything in the past; to John all he heard was everything, including his moments with Sherlock. There were too many things that he didn't want to forget. There was no way John was going to forget him and he wasn't going to move out of the flat to try. The flat was the only place that reminded him of Sherlock and the great years they shared together, even if he did cry whenever he entered.

Only one person knew how John felt for Sherlock, after he confessed in a drunken state to his own landlady while lying where Sherlock would spend hours playing his violin. So as he talked about how he wished Sherlock was still alive and that they were together, all Mrs Hudson did was pat him on the shoulder and listen to everything he had to say. They were never the same after that.

So it came as a complete shock to open the doors of the building and to be met by a tearful Mrs Hudson who was holding tightly onto her kitchen towel; sitting on the bottom of the stairs. When John closed the door, Mrs Hudson got up from the stairs, walked up to John and lifted her hand so she could hit him-with her kitchen towel- on John's arm. Fortunately, she didn't hit him as hard and she purposely avoided his shoulder.

"John." One hit. "Hamish." Two hit. "Watson." The last hit. "I've known you for five years and you have never gotten yourself hurt like this. What were you thinking?!" Again she continued to hit him.

"Mrs Hudson, control you!" he said, using his attacked arm to shield himself, "I'm okay now, see?" He held his arms up but a burst of pain shot up his shoulder and he dropped his arms again, "Why are you hitting me?"

"Did you even try and protect yourself? You've tried to kill yourself before but you just-" she ended up choking on her own words through her tears, "You didn't even try, did you?"

Even John had to admit that he didn't try; he just let that man stab him; he even asked for it. At that moment it seemed like the right thing to do, however there had been many times where drinking offered the wrong choices.

"I've already lost Sherlock," her words drifted as she walked back to the stairs; sitting down on a step, taking her time with her hip, "I don't want to lose you too." She tried to laugh, but it was covered by her tears, "I'm far older than you boys. You shouldn't be going first before me."

The thought of Mrs Hudson believing this- let alone admitting it- made John wince. Now he was regretting not just the other night, but the other nights also. The nights where he thought he was so alone or where he threatened to take his life. There were nights where he didn't regret, where he would list all the things that he loved about Sherlock to Mrs Hudson and reminisce about all the moments they had. However these nights were outnumbered by the bad ones.

Slowly-taking his time with his leg- he joined Mrs Hudson by the stairs and sat by her side. Using his uninjured arm, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

"Mrs Hudson. I'm so sorry, for everything. Jesus Christ, I've done some pretty stupid things recently, haven't I?" Mrs Hudson laughed, "Laugh as much as you want, it's true. I mean I could have stopped the bloke, but I didn't."

This made Mrs Hudson look up at him, "But why John? Why did you just let him? You're a soldier, John. You're a very brave man; you shouldn't let things like that happen to you. "

"I'm going to be honest with you Mrs Hudson, but please don't hit me again," he said as he saw her grasp the kitchen towel tighter, "At the time I wanted it to happen. I wanted that man to kill me, because-" he paused. Closing his eyes he tried to picture the moment it happened, "I- I wanted to be with Sherlock, because that was the only way."

"Oh John." she said. Instantly she dropped her kitchen towel and wrapped both her arms around him; John copied her movement but held onto her tighter.

"Now the idea of it seems rather stupid of me, I can admit that. I was very selfish in not thinking about who I'll be leaving behind-" he paused, as a sudden realisation hit him, "That man could do that again, to anyone and I didn't even try and remember his face or even stop him."

Mrs Hudson didn't have anything to say about that, so instead lifted herself from the stairs and looked down at John; and was holding her hand out towards him. As John looked up, he could still see she was crying but silently this time, as if she is trying to hold it back. This time he felt more vulnerable as he sat crouched into the side of the stairs. He also felt guilty, as he shouldn't have let someone try to kill him so easily. Now-after making Mrs Hudson cry so easily- he felt like he owed everything to her. Using her offered hand as support, he lifted himself up and followed Mrs Hudson up the stairs to the flat.

"The tea they make in hospitals is ghastly, I'll fetch you a nice pot of tea and a couple of biscuits and we can go through everything." she said, guiding him up the stairs and into his own living room.

The place had been cleaned up since he left that night; Mrs Hudson must have cleaned up while John was gone. The curtains had been fully opened this time, letting in a warm, welcoming light that spread in through the whole room. Both walked towards the kitchen where John took a seat on while Mrs Hudson boiled the kettle and set out biscuits.

John felt as if he should get up and help her, but decided against the idea due to the fact that his leg was tensing up again. This happened once in a while, but when it did, John was left feeling useless and unable to do anything at all. He guessed that he considered himself lucky to have Mrs Hudson nearby.

The kettle made a clicking sound to signal it had finished, so Mrs Hudson walked to the kettle, made the two cups of tea and a pot of tea; and placed them in front of John. As Mrs Hudson was getting the plate of biscuits, John took the tea- that was in his favourite mug- and took a sip; not caring for the risk of burning his mouth. Yet as he finished taking a mouthful, he sighed in contentment. Mrs Hudson was right: the hospital does make bad tea.

When she placed the biscuits in the middle of the counter, she sat down opposite to John- where Sherlock used to sit during his experiments- and drank her own tea. At first they were sat in silence: drinking their tea and eating the biscuits one at a time. When John would look over to Mrs Hudson, he could sense that she wanted to bring up a conversation. So as he was about to bring up a conversation, Mrs Hudson started her own, "John, I guess I would never fully understand as to why you did those things to yourself, so I want you to tell me. We have all day and enough teabags to last us. Just start from the beginning and tell me everything."

And so he did.

* * *

At the exact same moment John was opening his heart out to Mrs Hudson- approximately 282 miles away- a man was lying on a bed in a cheap, worn out hotel bedroom. There was no need for any luxuries as he didn't require them. In exactly three hours, he would leave the hotel and go to the destination needed.

The man had spent many years carrying out this task and tonight would be the start of the beginning of the end. Over the years, he had imagined coming home, but there was always the thought about if there was a home to go to. There were times where he wondered if his friend- his only true friend that he could trust- had moved on, gotten married or had kids, but he didn't want to think about that.

This thought always bothered him: if John had moved on without him, what would become of him when he returned. The thought seemed selfish, but he couldn't help it. A small part of him didn't want John to move on and meet somebody else, but as he told himself: it was a self-centred thing to want. He didn't know why he thought this, so he kept this thought to himself.

Turning over on the stiff bed, he looked up at the picture that rested against the bedside lamp. The picture was something he cherished and never let go out of his sight. It wasn't a professional picture: there were no special lights or useless poses; however the picture was of great comfort to him, as it was the only picture he possessed of the pair of them.

The picture was of a crime scene. In fact, it was the last crime scene before all the problems with Moriarty started. He remembered that day well: a famous author was murdered in her own home and they were both called in to go to the crime scene. The case was rather easy and took him minutes to tell everyone what he deduced, which is what the picture shows.

The photo was taken by Lestrade and was given to him just weeks before he left for Tibet, which was the start of the three years. At the start, he left the photo in his bedside drawer and forgot about it. But it wasn't until the night before he left Baker Street that he found it and took it with him.

There were only two people in the photo, and that was all there needed to be. They both looked rather happy, which was a change to- as he can admit himself- what he was usually like. It was the moment where he was telling everyone about the murder, and John was stood next to him; smiling up at him as if he was the most wondrous man he'd ever met.

Sherlock wasn't sure if that was how John thought of him, but the thought of it filled Sherlock will happiness. The only times he smiled during the three years was when he looked at the photo.

Once tonight was over, he would return to London to carry out the last task. Once everything was over, he would finally be reunited with John just as he hoped. But when Sherlock thought about those three years he left him, he believed that a happy reunion wouldn't be expected.

* * *

**Author's Note: Yes, I have finally introduced Sherlock into this :) So now the chapters might change from Sherlock's point of view to John's point of view. Thank you everyone who has been patient and stuck with the story so far. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated :) **


	5. Chapter 5

When he ushered his patient out of the room, he closed his door and leaned back against it- while hitting his head against it- and let out a relieved sigh. The last patient to visit him today had been a long one, since she demanded that he would go over every single instruction and the process of what would happen when she took prescribed cold medicine. Taking it was very simple, however she didn't think so.

Overall he had ten patients come into his home in just under three hours. The beauty of being an independent doctor and having your own working hours is that you can actually choose when you finish work and when you start. Usually he would keep the practice open for up to six hours- whenever he wanted a distraction- and the minimum amount would be just two hours. Obviously if someone were to book an appointment, any day would do as he opened it every day.

However, after the first two hours he felt like he couldn't go on, and the last patient didn't help so he closed early. The time was six o'clock in the evening, so most people wouldn't enter anyway. John walked over to his desk and sorted out a couple of files and put them in the right folders ready to go into the cabinet. Many of his patients came in today complaining about a cold, which was expected since it was coming towards the end of autumn.

As he was about to walk to the filing cabinet, the sound of many footsteps entered the flat on the ground floor. The sound was so incredible thunderous that the whole room shook with the noise; many of the painting handing up ended up out of place and uneven.

When the noise stopped, he thought about whether he should check what the noise was, but persuaded himself to ignore it. After putting the folders away, he straightened out all the pictures in the room and opened the window to let all the stuffy air out and cool breeze in. The gentle wind hit his face as he exhaled slowly. Unfortunately the view of below is far less pleasant that just opening the window.

Overflowing bins and strayed cats loomed around the alley; some of the cats he doesn't mind. Like the one with black fur and tall legs regularly visits and is the only one who doesn't make a mess of the place, but most of them make him want to pull his hair out.

Just as he was about to close the window, he heard the sounds of many voices from downstairs vibrate through the floorboards. Mrs Hudson rarely has visitors, so it was rather odd for him to hear it. When he closed the window, he walked over to the door and opened it again, but only wide enough for him to poke his head out. The voices still continued but after a minute, a louder sound of somebody hushing them all stopped the talking and again the flat returned to silence.

John never pried into Mrs Hudson's personal life, so thought it wasn't any of his business. Closing the door behind him, he grabbed the keys from his pocket and locked the door and headed towards the living room. Again, he still hadn't cleaned up since he returned from the hospital- which was a week ago- as the layers of dust on the furniture showed. Somehow his time was always occupied doing something else.

Heading over the window, he reached down to the floor for the 'open and closed' sign that he had for his services. He flipped the sides so that 'closed' was facing towards the window and placed it back down onto the floor. After a couple of hours work, he felt like he had done his deed for the day and headed over towards the fridge to grab a bottle of beer. However just as he was about to grab it, there was a sound of a cough behind him and his hand froze in place. Closing the fridge door again, he turned slowly to look at the person with him. When he saw who it was, he relaxed his muscles and gave her a warm smile.

Stood just outside the kitchen was one of the kids that helped him when he was stabbed; he remembered her easily as she talked about Sherlock with him; he thinks her name was Kathy.

"Hello," he said, still hunched on the other side of the room, "Kathy, isn't it?"

"Yes sir." she said, grabbing the grey, worn out cap from her head and twisting it with her hands.

"Where's everyone else? Do they know you're here?"

"I don't think so. They were busy doing something with Martha, a- and I knew you were here and I just, I mean... I don't know." she looked lost as she gazed around the room, as if she had never been here before, which may possible be true, "Does Sherlock live here?"

"Why are you here?" he asked, ignoring her question. She realised this and began to fidget even more with her cap and the cuffs on her coat, "I- I'm sorry. I'm sure you won't get in trouble for being up here, so don't look scared okay?" she looked up to him and nodded, "So what's wrong? What's happened?"

"Well nothing's happened sir. To anyone else I mean. They said that it would help cure itself but-" she paused and made a face that looked as if she was about to sneeze, "-I don't think it will. I've had it for a while. I think I'm sick."

"You think you might be sick?" he asked as she replied by releasing a noisy sneeze before covering her mouth with her coat sleeves, "Right, just hand on for a minute."

Walking over to the drawer counter, he pulled out a spare thermometer and cleaned it up with warm, soapy water before rinsing it with cool water. Shaking the thermometer, he walked slowly over to the girl and crouched down so that they were the same height.

"I'm just going to check your forehead for a minute, okay?" she looked uncertain at first, but then when she looked around the room again, she nodded. He placed the back of his free hand over Kathy's forehead and checked her temperature. There was no denying that her temperature was higher than average; far higher.

"Right, you know what this is?" she nodded again, "I'm just going to use this to check if you're poorly. First I need you to open your mouth a bit. Right, like that. Now I need you to lift your tongue up for me. Okay, you're doing great. Now I'm just going to use this-" he placed the thermometer under the tip of her tongue, "Right, and can you just close your mouth for me again and then hold the thermometer with your hand please?"

Once she did, he got back up onto his feet and stretched out his legs. Looking down, he saw that she was trying to speak with the thermometer but shook his head and turned towards the kitchen again, "Don't speak. You need to keep that it for three to four minutes at least." he walked over to the kettle to put water into it and walked back to turn it on.

Leaning against the counter, he waited for the four minutes to pass by while using his watch as a stop watch. There were many things he wanted to ask her, but couldn't because of obvious reasons. There would be no surprise if she was ill, considering she spends all her moments outside, whether sleeping or staying awake. Ever since last week, he had always feared when something like this might happen to kids as young as her who may be out there, or the older kids who look after them. The streets of London weren't safe for kids these days, especially since what's been happening recently.

Three minutes had passed so John walked back over to Kathy and crouched down again to her height. Gently he grabbed the thermometer, "Right, I need you to slowly open your mouth and then I can read your temperature." Lifting it close to his face, he read her temperature: 38 degrees Celsius, "Your temperature is rather high."

"Will I be okay? I don't want to be ill. I was ill last time and I didn't like it-"

"Right, okay. Well you are showing signs of a fever. Do you feel warm all the time?" she nodded. "Do you feel tired all the time? Like when you're walking around-"

"When we walk around London I want to go to sleep, but when I try to sleep I can't because it's too hot. I don't like it-"

Suddenly-coming up the stairs- the sounds of footsteps grew louder as the source headed closer towards the flat. John instantly looked up towards the living room, and then back at Kathy who looked rather bashful as she looked down at the floor.

As the door opened, many people walked into the room and found John and Kathy in the kitchen; instantly he recognised them all from last week, the ones who took him in while waiting for help; he also remembered their names. Daniel and Wiggins were stood in front of the group while Tom and Johnson were stood behind them. Seconds later, Ines appeared into the living room; then the kitchen and made a move to pick up Kathy.

"Kathy!" she said, cradling Kathy in her skinny arms, "What are you doing up here?" she turned to look back at John, "I'm so sorry about this. She shouldn't have done it. She's never done something like this before."

"I felt ill and Danny told me he was a doctor. Since last week I thought it would be okay!" Kathy was now trying to release herself from Ines, "I'm sorry Ines. I'm sorry Wiggins. I'm sorry Johnny and Danny and Tom." At this time, she was getting to the point of crying and shaking rather furiously.

"Okay everyone calm down. It's obvious that she isn't feeling well. I've checked and I'm positive that she has a fever and all of this isn't helping her. You need to put her back down, give her some water, let her stay in a proper bed-" Everybody besides Kathy and Wiggins laughed, "-and let her rest. You leave her illness unattended and it won't go away. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

" Wiggins! Ines!" Another voice was calling from the stairs which was the sound of Mrs Hudson walking towards them. When she appeared into the kitchen she stopped when she realised that John was stood there with everybody else.

It was then that John realised how Mrs Hudson knew their names. Kathy talked about the group doing something with 'Martha' when she came up to the flat. Never in time at 221B had he asked Mrs Hudson her real name, as he never thought about it but now it all made sense.

Mrs Hudson must be Martha; it was the only explanation.

* * *

**Author's Note: People might have guesses Mrs Hudson was Martha, so well done :) I like where this story is going, if I say so myself. HOWEVER, if you don't like where it's going, then there is room for improvements :) Update will be sometime next week :)**


	6. Chapter 6

In the three years, John had never had so many people in his flat at once. Seven figures were occupying available chairs in his flat: Ines sat on John's chair with Kathy in her lap; Johnson, Wiggins and Daniel were sat on the large couch on the other side; and Tom and Mrs Hudson took the two seats at the dining table. All of them were waiting for the kettle to boil as John was moving around in the kitchen.

It was getting towards December and there were already signs of snow coming towards London; god knows- John thought- how children could survive in weather like that, considering they've been homeless for more than three years. It saddened John to think of reasons why their parents could ever leave them behind without anyone; maybe that's why he pitied Kathy the most.

When the kettle finally boiled, he chucked teabags into a teapot and filled it up with water; then moving it into the living room coffee table along with sugar and milk on a tray. Quickly, he moved back into the kitchen and fetched enough mugs for everyone and brought them to the table. As he moved out of the way Tom, Daniel and Kathy were the first ones to reach for the teapot; followed by the rest. John moved aside for them and stood behind Mrs Hudson; resting his back on the window; tensing when the cold glass came into contact with his neck.

"Sorry if we're being rude," said Daniel, who gulped down a mouthful of tea, "It's just, you know-"

"Yeah, yeah I get it," he said. Reaching his hand to Mrs Hudson, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder so she would turn around, "I'm sorry Mrs Hudson. I had no idea Martha was your real name."

"And neither did Sherlock to tell you the truth."

"Can I just ask though, how long have they been coming to the flat? I mean I should have heard them come in as I did today."

"Two months after you moved in. Usually, they would ask me to bring what they need to them outside. They wait near the bins you see, so I would meet them there. They wouldn't come into the flat unless it was important. They were worried about Kathy and didn't know what to do-"

"Do you have any biscuits?" asked Tom, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Shut up Tom, stop being rude!" hissed Ines.

"No, no it's fine. I think there are some digestives in the cupboard next to the fridge." answered John. Tom jumped up from his seat and jogged towards the cupboard and seared for them, while receiving disapproval looks from Ines and Johnson. However, Tom managed to brush his hand over something and he froze still, "Found it yet? I'm sure they're there."

"I-" His words seemed to be lost as he looked at the rest of the group in horror, "I think I found a-" He looked back into the cupboard to reach for the object he found, which just happened to be the skull that used to reside above the fireplace, "What. The hell is this?!"

"Is that a skull?" asked Wiggins, who got up and joined Tom's side to continue looking for the biscuits.

"It was a friend of Sherlock's. Well, he _says_ friend. Have you found them Wiggins?" he called out. After seconds, Wiggins held up a packed of digestives in the air and brought them back into living room, "Stop staring at that skull and put it back in the cupboard-"

"Not just yet. Bring it over here." asked John, holding his hand up. At first, Tom looked against the idea of holding the skull for any longer and intended to put it back, but thought about whose house he was in, so closed the cupboard and walked over to John to place the skull in his hands, "I used to hide many things under this skull. Cigarettes, nicotine patches, his phone whenever I got irritated with him, you name it."

Setting his mug aside, he got up and walked over to the fireplace while dodging Kathy and Ines who were now sat at the floor with their tea. Brushing the dust off the mantle, he placed the skull back where it originally was before he moved it into the kitchen cupboard. Many good memories flooded back to him that was to do with Sherlock: where he would talk to it as if it were a person or when he would hide it to scare off Anderson during a 'drugs bust'.

"So what happens now?" asked Kathy, who tugged on John's trousers to get his attention, "I don't want to be ill and you said that I need to sleep in a bed. And I don't have a bed like most girls my age have."

John looked over at Mrs Hudson, "Any ideas? I mean she could stay here until she gets better."

"Nope, not possible. Sorry, we can't do that." said Ines as she reached a protective arm over Kathy and pulled her close.

"Why not Ines dear?" asked Mrs Hudson, "Poor Kathy needs to get better, and if John suggests that she stays in a proper bed, then maybe that's what should happen. As they say: it's the doctor's orders."

For a moment Ines stayed quiet and thought over the idea in her head while holding onto Kathy tighter. Then she looked over to Wiggins and stared up at him in desperation, "I don't know. You would know Wiggins. Do you think it would be a good idea?"

"I mean, if that's what Mr Watson says then maybe we should listen to him. Like Martha said, he is a doctor after all, so he should know best." he said, pouring more tea and milk into his mug, "But it's not up to me to decide. It's Kathy's and whoever is going to look after her's choice." Picking up a digestive, he handed it over to Kathy who took it willingly, "Kat, do you want to stay here until you get better." She nodded. "Okay then, which one of you is going to watch her then?"

John and Mrs Hudson looked at each other as if they were having a conversation though staring, "I have a spare room." said John who still looked at Mrs Hudson, "And you don't. She could stay in my room while I stay in...Sherlock's."

"But John-"

"Mrs Hudson, I am perfectly capable of sleeping in Sherlock's room for a couple of nights," he said, then whispering to himself, "It's not like I haven't done it before." He remembered back to the nights he slept in Sherlock's bed after what happened; luckily nobody heard him say this.

"Are you okay with that Kat?" asked Wiggins, "Staying with John for a couple of nights, you don't mind, do you?"

"No. It'll be fun. I've never been up here you know." she said, looking around the living room, "It's very warm in here sir. I like it. I can't remember the last time I had tea."

"You haven't." said Tom, who fished into the packet of biscuits for another, "You're not allowed it when you're really young."

"Well I like tea now." she said, gripping the cup tighter for extra warmth. Until suddenly she put the mug back onto the table and held her arms around her stomach to say she was in pain, "I don't feel well Ines. I think it was the tea, but it can't be. It's happened before."

"I think that's a symptom of your sickness?" asked Ines to John, who nodded at her question, "Maybe we should put you into bed now, would that be a good idea Mr Watson?

"It's wise." he said, making a move towards the door. Ines got up off the floor; brushed herself down and picked up Kathy in her arms to follow John to his room. Wiggins followed behind them; leaving Daniel, Tom and Johnson with Mrs Hudson.

Once all four reached John's bedroom, Ines saw the bed and didn't resist putting Kathy down as all three stared down at the drowsy child lying down on the bed, "Do you think she'll be okay?"

"After a couple of days she'll be okay. Maybe a week or two. It's hard to know with weather like this. While she's here, she should stay in bed. You can visit whenever you have the time." he said, checking her temperature again with the back of his hand on her forehead.

Wiggins and John looked at her for one more moment before walking back onto the landing. As Wiggins walked down the stairs, John moved towards the door and looked at Ines; it was obvious that she wanted more time to stay with her so he gave them peace and quiet by closing the door for them and made a move to follow the other down the stairs.

* * *

Inside the room, Ines was looking down at Kathy and how horribly different she looked when she was this ill. There were times when she had been ill just like this, but for some reason this moment had a deeper effect on her than past ones. The way Kathy's small body was curled up into a ball as she shivered in her sleep; it was obvious that she wasn't in comfort, but there was nothing she could do.

For one last moment, she sat on the side of the bed and bent her head down to kiss Kathy's hair gently before pulling away and looking at her for one more moment. Hopefully- she thought- John was right about what he said, that she would get better. But still, Ines could only think the worst whenever somebody close to her was in a state like this. She had experience of this in the past- where someone close to her was in a state like this- which made her more frightened of Kathy's health, and whether she would pull though hard enough to get better as soon as possible.

* * *

After hours of following him, they both had finally reached a spot where nobody could see them; they could only see each other as they both stared at one another while they each held a gun in their hands, both pointing at the other. Both were standing in the night's darkness on a tall buildings rooftop, which looked very familiar to past events. The taller they were above the ground made it harder for them to stand without shivering from the coldness, but that was forgotten when a gun provided a distraction.

There had been complications during the process. Instead of hunting the man down like he promised himself days ago, this whole ordeal was postponed for a couple of days until tonight where he was finally given the chance.

One had short black hair which blended in with the darkness and wore dark denim jeans with a tattered brown shirt and green coat while the other was a rather built man with a bold head which was covered with a cap. Comparing how each of them were built, the other man could easily tackle the black haired man to the ground, but he wasn't going to let that happen easily.

"So you've been the one that's executing my acquaintances like dogs?" said one, who was backing further towards the edge, "They told me about a man who's been travelling across the globe in search of us, of all of us. To be honest, I wasn't expecting you Mr Holmes."

Sherlock edged closer towards the other man and aimed his gun directly at the other's head; the other copied his moves; he hasn't yet talked to the man, but there was no need to. There was no time to waste around talking and tormenting when this can be done as soon as possible. There was a perfect moment, but for some reason Sherlock didn't take it yet.

"Isn't this ironic? You'll die in the same place that you said your final goodbye to John Watson: on a rooftop." The mentioning of John made Sherlock grip the gun tighter and move closer towards the man, "You do know that if you kill me you haven't even finished yet. Sebastian can be quite hard to find, let alone to kill. How do you think you'll actually kill him?"

"The same way I'm about to kill you and the rest of those that I've killed. I only need one bullet, like I did with the others. No messing around." Finally, Sherlock stopped walking towards the person and just focused on aiming his gun at them; breathing in and out along with his slow heartbeat, like he had done many times before.

"What makes you think that you'll be the one walking away from this alive?" he asked, "I'm a trained hit man. A good one to be exact, good enough to be hired by Moriarty. I'm not going to lose control of this situation now. Not now, when instead I could be the one to kill you, which even Moriarty couldn't even do."

"Says the one who's standing on the edge."

"Very funny." he said. Looking down at the streets below, the hit man thought of the possible escape routes before looking back at Sherlock, "I remember that day, you know. I wasn't there when you 'fell', but I was watching somebody who's rather close to you. She was very kind to me, offering me tea and all that. But that wasn't going to stop me putting a bullet through her head. I was hired especially to kill her-" Immediately Sherlock recognised who he was talking about: Mrs Hudson, "I was rather pissed off that you jumped, you see I take good joy with every hit I make. If you didn't jump, I would have savoured that moment where I would hold the gun to the back of her skull and-"

There was no reason for Sherlock to hear any of this-he thought- and didn't feel like he should waste time in hearing the man's sick story of how he would kill somebody close to him. That's why he didn't hesitate when he pulled the trigger and shot the built man directly between his eyes; he shot at the man again and again until the lifeless body fell back and started to fall towards the ground.

At that moment, Sherlock didn't care if there were any people passing by- as he walked to the edge of the rooftop- but Mycroft certainly would. Luckily, he chased the man to a quiet spot on the outskirts of Nanterre in Paris; it was so quiet that there was nobody in sight to see the man hit the pavement; his limbs angled in odd ways as his body was illuminated on one side from a street lamp. Even if there was nobody to see, people would have still heard the noise of the gunshot and would come out of their houses to investigate.

Without hesitation, he put the gun back into his coat pocket and made his way back towards the roof doors and made his exit down the stairs. If-three years ago- you would ask Sherlock if he would ever kill somebody for revenge, he would say that wasn't the way he worked. But those three years have changed the way he thought, the man he had just killed was-in a way- to get back at what would have done to Mrs Hudson, just as he killed the other man who was going to kill Lestrade.

However there was still somebody left. One more person was still alive who was going to kill John: Sebastian Moran. The one person that stood between him and returning home. It was true what the man said, Moran will be a lot more difficult to find, but at least Sherlock knew his whereabouts: London. The place where it all started. Mycroft called him hours before and told him one of his private planes was ready to take him straight to London where he would search for Moran and finally end all of this.

Part of him was rather eager to find Moran so that all of this could be finished, but then he began to worry, as an idea occurred to him which he hadn't considered: why was Moran in London in the first place?

* * *

**Author's Note: Yay, Sherlock's coming home! Well...not just yet. Since I started on a new story, I have four stories to update in a weekend, which makes it harder for me to conjure up any ideas and stuff, but bear with me. I hope you enjoyed reading this update and thank you for following :)**


	7. Chapter 7

_Every night it was the same dream; the same person; the same fall. It was always Sherlock that he could see, every single time. There was the sound of his screams filling his ears as he tried to run forward, but in his dream, there was nobody else on the streets, not like there was before. There was only him and Sherlock. Once he got to Sherlock's lifeless body, he would fall to his knees besides him in his pool of blood and feel his pulse. For some reason, he could feel a heartbeat from his bony wrists. _

_When he would drop his wrist, he would turn the body over. When the body was turned to his back, he would scramble back up again and stare down at the body in horror; he could feel himself shake as he tried to back away from the body. Sherlock's eyes were completely open and were staring up at John as his hands were moving at his sides. Usually, the sight of Sherlock alive like that would give him some form of hope, but whenever he had this dream, hope was something he never thought of._

_It was the way Sherlock looked at him with his eyes. How his eyes were surrounded by splatters of blood. It haunted him for three years: the way Sherlock would stare at him. He felt that his stare would haunt him for more years to come._

* * *

Shooting up from his bed, he breathed heavily and stared up at the ceiling while resting his body on his elbows. His heart rate sped up as flashes of images from his dreams left a print in his mind. First all he did was look up above him and try to erase the image from his mind, but he couldn't. It happened every night, without fail. His therapist told him it would pass after a couple of months; that was two years ago. John thought it would be best to not tell anybody.

Once he felt his breathing go back to normal, he collapsed back into his bed and threw the covers away from him onto the floor and spread his arms out over the double bed. For some reason, the dream felt worse when he slept in Sherlock's room, like his room triggered something worse in his dreams.

John looked over at the clock and saw that it was 8 o'clock in the morning; in an hour he would open up the practice. When he felt himself calm down, he lifted his body back up by his elbows and moved up so that his back was resting against the headboard. The room was surprisingly bright, considering it was quite early in the morning, but then he remembered that he left the curtains open. He tried to remember why he did that, but somehow forgot.

The light gave him a better chance to look around Sherlock's room. The sunlight made all the dusts flowing through the air visible, which must have been why he found it difficult to breathe. Besides the bed, the room was still the same way Sherlock left it. Even his sock index was still in order. He swung his legs so his feet would hit the floor and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he got up and walked to the door and left the room in search for a cup of tea.

When he entered the living room, he jumped in shock; making the other figure turn to face him. He had completely forgotten that Kathy was sleeping upstairs in his room; all of a sudden he felt bad for not checking up on her. Inside the room she was standing on a shelf in the far corner trying to reach something on the highest shelf.

"What are you doing!?" he called, running over to pick her up off the shelf and place her back down on the floor.

"I- I got bored sir, and I came downstairs and saw the books and I wanted to read one." she said, looking sheepishly at the floor, "Sorry, I won't do it aga-"

"No- no it's fine, really. But you should have just asked me first. You could have hurt yourself." he said. After he got a chair from the table and dragged it over to the bookshelf to stand on, "Now which book did you want?"

"Um, the big one. The black one with gold stuff on the side." she said, pointing at the book. He saw it and pulled it out of the shelf.

"The Encyclopaedia Britannica? Are you sure you want to read that? Wouldn't it be too difficult for you?"

"Um, yes. I'm sure." John shot her a glance and she pouted, "Ines taught me to read. I can read anything now. The book looked interesting and I liked the name of it."

"The Encyclopaedia Britannica." John said to himself as he got back off the chair and placed the chair back under the table, "I guess it does sound interesting in a sort of way."

"See! I told you!" she said. Then John handed her the book and walked towards the kitchen, "Shouldn't you be in bed now? You need to get better, Ines gave me strict rules."

"But I'm not tired and staying in bed is boring." she said, setting herself in a seat at the table and opening the book up, "Wow, the letters are small."

"I told you it would be difficult." Walking over to the kettle, he picked it up and filled it with water before turning it on, "Have you had anything to eat or drink yet?" She shook her head, "Right, you'll need a glass of water and some food."

First he filled up a glass with water before looking inside the cupboards for food, "We have bread, eggs, cereal, and biscuits? Well, I guess that's not suitable as breakfast. Coco pops?" he asked, looking over at her. This time she raised her head from the book and nodded her head, "Coco pops it is."

Afterwards he set out two bowls on the counter and filled it with the cereal and brought them over to the table along with the water on a tray. Reaching over for the remote, he turned on the television and switched it over to the news. Kathy immediately ignored the book and turned her head to watch the television as John walked back to the kitchen as the kettle had finished boiling.

Over his movements while making his tea, he could hear the news reporter speaking, "_The body was discovered today under a bridge on Regent's Canal at 3 o'clock this morning by police officers in the area. The body is of 8 year old Fiona Drew. There are no records of Fiona Drew on either police or hospital records besides the date of her birth, which indicate that Fiona Drew was living on the streets homeless in London when she was killed. We will have more updates during the course of the investigation, but here are further details of what we already know and how you can help us. If you have any information contact the number below or New Scotland Yard that could help with the investigation."_

When he finished making the tea, he brought it over with a jug of milk and placed them on the table. He didn't notice it at first, but when he looked over at Kathy, he saw that she was silently crying to herself while still watching the television, "Hey, what's up? What's happened?" he said, sitting down in the opposite chair to tap at her arm. She swirled back around and looked at John, "Is it about what's on the news?"

She wiped her runny nose with the back of her sleeve before dragging the bowl of cereal towards her and grabbing the milk, "I knew her." she said, pouring the milk, "We were friends."

"You knew Fiona Drew?" he asked, looking back at the television which was showing clips from the crime scene, "How?"

"She-" The spoon she held hovered for a moment under her mouth before she took a bite and placed the spoon back down, "She was like me. We both worked with Wiggins and Ines and the others. She was younger than I was, so I had to look after her at times."

"I- I'm so sorry." he said. John thought it was best to turn off the television for her sake, so he grabbed the remote and turned it off, "How old was she, when she joined your group?"

"Six. I was seven at the time." she said. Now most of her attention was towards the book, "We thought she was happy when we took her in, when her mum and dad died and left her. She looked happy, but I guess she wasn't."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, a year ago we were trying to run away from this group that was chasing us and we got separated. We all told each other before that we would meet at this place, all of us made it...besides Fiona."

"Wait, you were being chased? Why were they chasing you?"

"I don't know, bu- but they had guns and everything. We were so scared, even Johnny was scared of them. I do- don't know why they were chasing us, but it wasn't the first time. It happened before but they didn't have guns and everyone made it that time."

"How come none of you told the police about this?"

"We couldn't, nobody would listen to us. Wiggi told Myccie what happened, and he tried to find out who they were, but he couldn't." At first he was confused by the word 'Myccie', but then it was obvious that it was a pet name for Mycroft. John took note the nickname and thought about if he should use it to mock him whenever he wanted a laugh.

"Sometimes we would wait at the same spot, with Ines and Johnny, just to see if she would be there." Kathy looked down at her bowl of cereal and sniffled through her nose as John sat looking down at her, feeling helpless looking down and wondering how weak she looked. For a while they both sat in the silence while consuming their breakfast; John was looking out the window and around the room and Kathy continued to read the book. After a while, they both finished their cereal and Kathy asked, "Do you think Ines knows?"

"Maybe, I'm not so sure. I'll talk to her when she visits this afternoon with Wiggins and the rest of them, but for now," he said, who got up from the chair to grab the empty bowls and walked towards the sink, "You need to rest. I have to work for a couple of hours, but I'll be here in the flat if you need me. You shouldn't stay in the living room, it's best if you go back to bed.

"But it feels weird staying in bed; I'm used to running around and jumping and stuff."

"If you want to get better as soon as possible, then you need to go to bed." Once he finished washing the bowls, he let them to dry on the rack before walking back into the living room, "I open up the practice in half an hour. Before I start do you want anything in the room with you? Anymore books? Food? I'll make a jug of water for you and an ice pack to control your temperature."

"Umm," She looked around the room as she held the large book close to her chest, "Those books?" she suggested, pointing over at a row on the bookshelf.

"Right which one of these?"

"No, I- I meant all of them on that shelf." Walking over to the shelf, she grabbed a couple of books from the shelf and piled them above The Encyclopaedia Britannica. Only ten books were piled high as she tried to keep her balance; John helped her with the rest on the shelf. Then they started to walk out of the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. Inside they dropped the books next to the bed as she climbed back into the bed and pulled the covers over herself, "I think I'm good now. At least I have something to do."

"Okay, I'll just get the jug of water and the ice pack for you. Try and keep yourself warm by not leaving the bed unless you need to." he said, exiting the room, walking across the landing and heading back down the stairs.

Then a thought occurred to him: Kathy was there with Fiona minutes before she was kidnapped. There was a possibility that she was able to tell the police about what happened and who was chasing them that day. Without hesitating, he walked over to the table to retrieve his phone; he decided to keep this as quiet as possible from the press and called Greg instead. After a couple of rings, somebody finally picked up the phone and answered.

"DI Lestrade." he said. In the background it sounded busy; it must have been because of Fiona's murder.

"Hey Greg, it's John."

"Oh John, good to hear from you. But it's just that I'm rather busy at the moment, can you call back later?"

"I would Greg, but it can't wait. Are you working on that case on the news at the moment?"

"What, the one to do with Fiona Drew? Yeah, that's why everything sounds so hectic, we haven't had any calls from anyone yet and I hate to admit this John, but we're kind of desperate. If only Sherlock was here, he would have got this sorted out in under a couple of hours...why do you ask?"

"I have someone here who could help you out; she was with Fiona minutes before she was kidnapped two years ago."

"Two years ago?!" he shouted over the phone; he could hear Greg running around and the sound of keys, "And what do you mean kidnapped?"

"Fiona Drew was kidnapped two years ago, you didn't hear about it because she's homeless so there was no one to report her missing; she doesn't have anyone, but it turns out she does. I know someone who was being chased by the same group of people that kidnapped her."

"Tell me where you are John?" asked Greg. Suddenly there was the sound of a car engine. Greg must be in the car, he thought, "Are you at the flat? Are they there with you?"

"Yeah, they're here at the flat with me. But you'll have to wait here for most of the day for the rest of them. Oh and don't bring anyone else with you okay, they knew Fiona and haven't took this news easily."

"Sure, no problem. I'll see you there." he said. John was just about to put down the phone until he heard Lestrade call his name, "Oh, John!"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I- just want to say thanks. It really means a lot to me that you're helping out."

"Honestly Greg, it's no problem. Just come here on your own and try and not pressure them into telling you anything, okay?" Greg hummed, "Right, I'll see you later."

John put down the phone and placed it back onto the table and sat down on his chair beside the fireplace. He hated to admit this, but he was rather excited about the whole business. For once he felt like Sherlock, sometimes he would get secretly excited about a case even though it wasn't the time to show that you were having fun, but John couldn't help it.

It was like the excitement was coming back slowly into his life.

* * *

**Author's Note: I didn't think this update was that bad. I have a rough idea for the next update, which would be posted sometime next week. Thank you for reading, every view/review/favourite/follow means a lot and I appreciate it :)**


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